


a heavy heart to carry

by taizi



Series: if this is fate [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Backstory, Families of Choice, Gen, Ignis Scientia-centric, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Original Character(s), Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships, mentions of the ot4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-10-13 18:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17493164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: When he was six years old, Ignis dreamed of another little boy he’d never met before, one with a cloud of dark hair and startling blue eyes. The boy took his hand with a shy smile, and Ignis squeezed his fingers, and that is where the dream ends.It’s the most vivid, detailed dream Ignis has ever had, as though it’s a sight he curated carefully for years and years in order to recall at the drop of a hat. Well into adulthood, he still has that dream every now and then; a dream of himself, very small, and that boy, even smaller, and their two hands joined.It’s one of his most treasured memories, for all that it isn’t really a memory at all.





	1. sympathy from strangers

**Author's Note:**

> a continuation of my soulmates au ! it won't make much sense if you don't read the other stories first :)

When he was six years old, Ignis dreamed of another little boy he’d never met before, one with a cloud of dark hair and startling blue eyes that only just peeked through. The boy took his hand with a shy smile, and Ignis squeezed his fingers, and that is where the dream ends.

It’s the most vivid, detailed dream Ignis has ever had, as though it’s a sight he curated carefully for years and years in order to recall at the drop of a hat. Well into adulthood, he still has that dream every now and then; a dream of himself, very small, and that boy, even smaller, and their two hands joined.

It’s one of his most treasured memories, for all that it isn’t a memory at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

From a young age, Ignis knew he was different, but he didn’t know how much his mother would hate him for it.

When he was ten, and they were waiting to be shown to their table at mother’s favorite restaurant, his gaze followed a handsome boy the way it should have been following the pretty girls, and she noticed. Nearly incandescent with rage, she ordered their chauffeur to take him home, alone, and he went to bed without supper, and woke to find himself locked in his room.

“You’ll be sent to live with your uncle in Knightsbridge,” she said stiffly, a week later. She could barely stand to look at him. Father was angry in a more traditional sense, and the bruise around Ignis’ eye was colorful when he’d finally been allowed at the breakfast table again. “We’ll see if he doesn’t beat some sense into you.”

At that point, Ignis couldn’t remember ever meeting his uncle. He does remember thinking that any sibling of his mother’s would have to be as horrible as she was. He remembers knowing better than to hope for anything good.

He helped his nanny pack a suitcase, and leaned against her arm when he realized she was choking back angry tears for him. At the airport, the chauffeur parked and followed Ignis inside, helped him with his ticket and luggage, made sure he knew exactly what to do when he arrived at the London terminal, and programmed his and the nanny’s personal number into Ignis’ cellphone; _Leon,_ the first contact I.D. was saved, and then _Miss_ _Emma._

At ten years old, this made perfect sense to Ignis. Leon and Emma were the first people who came to mind when he thought of his family. He would miss them, and he stared resolutely at his shoes when Leon left, because as much as Ignis wanted him to stay, he’d be in trouble with mother if Ignis delayed him any longer.

A young mother and her twin daughters sat across from him in the busy terminal. The mother looked at him for all of two seconds and said, “Are you alright, sweetheart? Where are your parents?” Her eyes lingered on his bruise.

Ignis rattled off the platitudes he had practiced with teachers and tutors a million times before. It worked. She smiled at him, and offered him one of the eight ounce bottles of flavored water she was giving to her daughters, and that was that.

Ignis clutched the empty bottle after the family’s gate number was called and they went away. It was a cheap, plastic kindness that crinkled in his hands, but he was reluctant to throw it away all the same.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Heathrow airport was like a city all in itself. Ignis made his way through baggage claim, and was waved through customs when he had nothing to declare and nothing but a small suitcase beside him. There was a loaded prepaid card waiting for him at the money changing store, because Emma arranged for it online. In a little under an hour, Ignis was standing in the arrivals lobby, keeping as far out of everyone’s way as he could.

There were drivers holding name placards, but Ignis’ name wasn’t on any of them. He wondered if he was meant to get a taxi, but he didn’t have his uncle’s address. It wasn't as though mother would have given information like that to Leon. Ignis tightened his grip on the handle of his bag, the only familiar thing to him on this continent, and waited.

He didn’t wait long.

“Ignis?” a cultured voice asked from just behind him. It was a voice that soothed the sharp edges of Ignis’ anxiety, that made it just slightly easier to breathe. It might even have been familiar, but he knew he'd never heard it before.

And when he turned to face the man that must have been his uncle, Ventus Scientia smiled at him kindly.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You didn’t have to come get me, sir,” Ignis said, when they were both seated in the back of an airport cab. “I’m sure you’re busy. I could have taken a taxi by myself.”

“Nonsense,” his uncle replied. His voice was mild. He was the kind of man Ignis couldn’t imagine ever raising his voice. He wondered how his uncle and his mother could possibly be related. “I was looking forward to meeting my little nephew. Besides, this is your first time in London. We wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

Traffic was busy. The sidewalks were busy. There was a lot to see as they drove, and for all that he was doing his best to be polite, Ignis’ eyes kept straying to the window. When he remembered himself and snapped to attention again, casting a careful, sidelong look at his uncle to check his temper, the man never seemed to notice. He just sat there beside Ignis, calm and unbothered and unhurried, hands folded in his lap, looking out his own window, too.

But mother sent him here to have sense beaten into him. Ignis hadn’t forgotten that. He was ten years old, hardly a little kid anymore. He knew better than to pretend he was on here on some kind of vacation.

When the taxi stopped in front of an elegant townhouse in a line of similar townhouses, Ignis got out to help the driver with his bag. He wanted to be the one holding it, fingers curled tight around the handle, this singular thing that belonged to him. He pretended for a moment that he would hold onto it hard enough that it would need to be wrenched away if someone wanted to take it, but he knew himself better than that. He would let it go without a fight.

But his uncle didn’t take it from him, or scold him for carrying it himself. He just waited patiently by the gate for Ignis to follow him, and led him up a few steps and through the large, glossy front door.

It was nearly the same size as his parent’s apartment, maybe somewhat smaller. Upscale, but lived-in, with warm tones, and expensive-looking furniture comfortably worn from use, and personal photos and paintings on the walls. There was loads of natural light pouring in from the terrace doors, the curtains all pulled back from the windows to let in more of the sun, and the pleasant, roasted smell of coffee lingered in the air the way mother’s perfume did at home.

The sitting room, the breakfast nook, the armchair that didn’t quite match the sofa, the shelf of books that overflowed onto the coffee table and the windowsill and a nearby chair-- this was someone’s home, the rooms all said.

“Forgive the mess,” his uncle said amiably, waiting for Ignis to step further inside before closing the door behind them. “It’s just me here, and unfortunately I’ve never outgrown bachelorhood. It only looks this tidy now because I had a few days to prepare for you.”

Ignis realized that as sudden as this was for him, it was just as much so for his uncle. Guilt curdled in his stomach, or maybe it was dread, but either way the affirmation that he was causing trouble for this man who was to be his guardian sank into the bottom of his stomach like a stone. He was off to a poor start already.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ignis said, almost by rote, eyes dropping to his shoes. He tightened his grip on his bag. Waited for the other shoe to drop. Did his best not to stiffen when his uncle paused mid-step and turned toward him.

“Ignis,” his uncle said, in that same calm way he had said everything else so far. “Would you look at me, please?”

He didn’t touch him. From the airport to the taxi to the foyer of his pretty townhouse, his uncle’s hands remained at his sides or tucked away into his pockets or clasped idly. The way everyone Ignis knew, even the people he liked, presumed they had the right to touch him-- the way Emma would sometimes take him by the arm, or Leon would take him by the shoulder, the way mother would grab him or father would hurt him-- his uncle did not.

And there was still time for him to be cruel, but so far he had been kind. Ignis lifted his eyes.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” his uncle said, as immovable as a mountain. “Nothing at all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The guest bedroom was plainly furnished, pale-colored walls and dark-washed furniture, a few sparse decorative pieces. It felt like a comfortable hotel room, and it wasn’t at all what Ignis was expecting.

His uncle looked in with distaste, as though the room was doing him a disservice just by sitting there. “I wasn’t sure how to decorate for you. It seemed silly to buy curtains or a bedspread before I knew what your interests were.”

It wasn’t a demand, or even a question, and Ignis usually didn’t speak up unless it was clear an answer was expected of him. But he found himself replying cautiously, “I like to cook.”

He would help Emma make dinner when his parents were away. The kitchen was warm and busy the way the rest of the apartment never was, and Emma didn’t mind parking him at the counter with potatoes to peel or chicken to pull when it was just the two of them there.

For the first time, his uncle looked surprised. It was a surprise that gave way quickly to a wide smile, and the man said, “Is that so? I was going to order in tonight, I’ll admit. But if you’d rather, we could put something together with whatever we can find in the pantry and the ice box.”

“Do you know how to make anything?” Ignis asked, remembering the man’s earlier comment about bachelorhood. He realized too late that it might have been a rude question, but his uncle’s smile only grew.

“I’m absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, nephew. I’ll follow your instruction to the letter.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They managed to scrape together a casserole of potatoes, cheese and leeks for dinner. Ignis thought the crust could have been better. His uncle thought it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks.

“We’ll have to go shopping for groceries tomorrow,” the man said, helping himself to a third portion of the casserole. “There go my plans of stocking up on frozen mince pies and TV dinners.”

There was some sort of pudding for dessert, and they left the dishes in the sink when they were finished, and when he wasn’t sent away, Ignis followed his uncle into the den. His uncle turned the TV on and flicked through channels until he landed on a program about the history of Leeds Castle. Ignis was allowed to pick through the impressive number of books in the corner until he found one that interested him. They sat together and talked about some of the things on TV and some of the things in Ignis’ book until it was dark outside.

“Not very exciting for your first night in London, I’m afraid,” his uncle said. It almost sounded like an apology. Ignis wasn’t sure what to say to that, when it was the best night he’d had in months. He thought of the warm meal and nice bedroom and unassuming company his uncle had given him in the single day they had known each other.

He thought of the water bottle a stranger had given him at the airport and how he hadn’t wanted to throw it away. He thought of a little boy with dark hair and blue eyes and how he hadn’t wanted to let him go.

Ignis clutched the heavy book in his arms a little closer, and asked with a bit of hope that hurt his chest, “Can we do it again tomorrow?”

His uncle looked surprised by him again, and then something sad came and went through his eyes. And then he smiled, and said, “Of course, Ignis. Whatever you’d like.”

 

 

* * *

  

 

It took most of a month for Ignis to familiarize himself with the neighborhood. There was a corner grocery a few blocks away, and a little bodega at the end of his uncle’s street. He needed a bit longer to figure out the public transit, and his uncle would rather he didn’t take the subway by himself yet anyway.

The neighbors were all kind to him. The old woman next door would often call him over to help in her backyard garden in the afternoon and send him home with fresh vegetables from their little harvest. The man two doors down was a single father and begged Ignis to babysit any time he was near a deadline. The busy family across the street heard about his talents in the kitchen-- his uncle swore that he hadn’t told a soul, though who _else_ they could have heard it from was a mystery-- and somehow he ended up baking pastries for them a few times a week.

It was nice to cook for other people. He really enjoyed it, the way he seemed to settle into his skin behind a busy stove more than he did anywhere else.

“You’ll have to start charging for this once you start school in the fall,” his uncle said gravely, cutting, weighing, and rolling dough for Ignis while Ignis made filling for his tarts. He always came into the kitchen when he got home from work to see if there was anything he could help with. Lately, Ignis was brave enough to sometimes venture into his uncle’s study, to see if there were assignments he could help grade. Even if there weren’t, his uncle never turned down his company. “If you don’t, I will.”

“No one’s going to _buy_ my tarts, Uncle Ventus,” Ignis said patiently. Lately, he was also brave enough to sometimes call his uncle by name. “They’re just being nice.”

“I will tell them you said so,” his uncle said, with a smile on his face that he couldn't quite hide. “And we’ll see. Now, some of these will be kept aside for me, correct?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

July gave way to August, and Ignis developed a light tan from his work in Mrs. Blake’s garden and his less successful attempts to grow courgettes in his uncle’s backyard. He didn’t flinch when arms swung too close or strangers jostled him on busy sidewalks. The only bruise on his body was from when he and his uncle tried to move a bookshelf upstairs into Ignis’ bedroom and he bumped his knee into the doorjamb.

The people at the university knew him from all the times he brought his uncle a lunch bag or a set of keys or an entire briefcase he managed to forget at home, and greeted him when he came by. Four of the children in the neighborhood were Ignis’ age, and they all made a pact to survive the upcoming school year together. His neighbors called him by name or referred to him affectionately as “Venny’s boy" and always looked happy to see him.

There was still time for the other shoe to drop, but at some point, Ignis forgot to keep holding his breath.


	2. the house that built him

It was late in the night when Ignis woke up to the sound of a raised voice. He was confused for a moment before he recognized the voice as his uncle’s. He’d never heard Uncle Ventus shout before, and half-asleep as he was it was almost completely unfamiliar.

Ignis laid there for a moment, feeling unsettled. Wondered what could have made the mild-mannered man so angry, and who he might have been talking to. The alarm clock at his bedside didn't have a chance to wink from 2:38 to 2:39 before Ignis was throwing back his covers and sliding his feet into his slippers and sneaking like a thief out into the hall.

Ignis crept down the stairs, taking care to avoid the floorboards that creaked, and crouched there on the first step, where he was mostly hidden by the banister. His heart was thumping, nerves twisting into something cold and tight in his chest. He hugged his knees and listened.

“-- what the _hell_ you’re thinking,” his uncle said furiously. It sounded like he was in the kitchen. “We had an agreement, Essie. You send him here, and you leave him the hell alone. I don’t _care_ that he’s your son, not when you’re hardly fit to call yourself a mother. Don’t think I didn’t notice the bruises you shipped him off with, the way he flinched and shrank away and could barely look me in the eye-- “

Me, Ignis realized with a sinking heart. They’re talking about me.

It must have been mother on the phone. It was probably just after dinner back in Chicago. After nearly a year in London, Ignis hadn’t heard from his parents even once. He hadn’t realized Uncle Ventus made a deal with them. He didn't know how to feel about that, and didn't have time to sort it out just yet.

“We both know what it is you’re after, Estelle. Don’t do yourself the disservice of pretending otherwise.” Uncle Ventus let out a sigh that seemed to take all the anger out of him with it. He went on in a quiet tone closer to the one Ignis was used to. “Have your lawyer fax the documents over to my office. I’m ready to sign them and be done with this, but I have to talk to Ignis first. What-- of course it matters! In the end, it’s all that matters! If this isn’t what he wants, then-- “

Whatever mother said next made Uncle Ventus kick a chair, and Ignis flinched at the noise. He wished fervently that he was still upstairs in his bed, but he didn't dare try to sneak away now.

“Send the documents. Goodbye, Essie.”

He hung up the phone and then it sounded like he threw it. He marched around loudly for a moment, as though there was no suitable outlet for his temper, and for the first time in a long time, Ignis was reminded of his father. And that wasn't  _fair,_ it  _wasn't_ _\--_ not when it made Ignis shake too hard to stand, frozen where he was folded up on the bottom step.

Uncle Ventus was moving toward the stairs now, and Ignis buried his face in his arms. He didn't know what he’d do if his uncle yelled at him the way he yelled at mother-- if some of that anger from earlier would get pointed at Ignis, too-- and he was scared, he was scared, he was scared.

The footsteps paused a few feet away. Then they came closer. And then the floor groaned, and his uncle must have knelt right there in front of him because his voice was nearer when he said, “Oh, Ignis. Ignis, I’m sorry.”

He didn't sound angry. He sounded sad. Some of the coldness in Ignis’ chest sunk away, like ice faced by a fire.

“Come on, bug, let’s get you off the stairs. Would you come into the kitchen with me?”

It’s what they usually did when a bad dream or a storm made sleep impossible. Ignis couldn't count how many times he’d sat on the counter while his uncle bustled about making tea, absolutely certain that a hot cuppa and a few biscuits would cure anything.

The kitchen was always warm. It still smelled like the ciabatta bread they baked earlier, and Uncle Ventus took Ignis' favorite teacup down from the cabinet, and already Ignis could feel his heart start to settle.

“I shouldn’t have listened,” Ignis said while his uncle was filling the electric kettle. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Uncle Ventus told him firmly. “With the way I was carrying on down here, it’s no wonder you woke up. You’re a smart boy, Ignis, and you don’t like to be kept in the dark. I’d be more surprised if you’d stayed in your room, to be honest.”

Once Ignis was seated at the table, and his uncle was seated across from him, and they both had cups of tea going cold in their hands, his uncle said, “I’m sure you have questions.”

“If that’s okay?”

“It concerns you, Ignis. I was going to tell you about it anyway, you’ve just beaten me to it.”

Ignis turned his cup around a few times, fingertips searching out the familiar imperfections in the matte finish. It was blue, with fluffy yellow birds prancing around the side. He wasn't sure if they were supposed to be chickens or ostriches or some strange inbetween. He studied the silly birds while his uncle waited patiently.

When Ignis sorted himself out, his first question was, “What deal did you mean?”

Uncle Ventus nodded slowly, sitting back in his chair. “I never meant to keep you out of it entirely. I just needed to make sure all my ducks were in a row, so to speak. How much do you know about why your mother sent you to me?”

Ignis’ grip on the cup became a clutch, his shoulders hunched up by his ears. He looked down at the troubled surface of his milky tea, because it was safer to look there than anywhere else.

It had been most of a year, and he felt silly that he ever could have thought of Ventus Scientia as the type of person who would hurt _anybody_ , let alone Ignis. Not now, after all the hours he'd spent helping Ignis with his homework, and taste-testing all of Ignis’ culinary experiments, and sitting up with him drinking tea and eating sweets on nights like tonight. But still-- it felt like there was always the smallest chance he _might_ \-- and Ignis _hated_ that there was still a tiny little voice in the back of his mind that worried he _would_.

And he _hated_  the look on his uncle’s face when he reluctantly parted with the words. “She said you’d beat some sense into me.”

Uncle Ventus stiffened, his face going blank. His hands were clenched on either side of his cup. Ignis sunk a little lower in his chair, feeling miserable. The clock in the sitting room counted the seconds that fell between them, and Ignis thought longingly of the day before, when the only thing he was worried about was his grade in maths.

“Bleeding _Christ_ ,” his uncle said after a moment. “The woman’s lost the plot. How you’d say that sort of thing to a child is beyond me.”

“I’m not a child,” Ignis pointed out. He felt fairly grown up at eleven years old. Uncle Ventus cast him a look that was largely unimpressed, but it seemed as though the worst part of the conversation was behind them. Ignis felt himself smile when his uncle rolled his eyes. “She says lots of things. I shouldn’t have believed her.”

“How could you know any better? God, I could use something a little stronger than this.” Words notwithstanding, Ventus drained his tea in two big gulps and set the cup down briskly. “Right, then. So to begin with, I would cut off my own hands before I’d strike you, Ignis. Mrs. Blake next door would cut them off herself, come to that, and she’d do it with those ruddy garden shears of hers and go right back to work when she was done."

Ignis muffled a laugh behind his hand, because Mrs. Blake was a force of nature, for all that she was nearly eighty. His uncle looked relieved to see him laughing, and tension Ignis hadn’t even noticed before eased from the man's shoulders.

“Moving right along,” Ventus said, “you know how I’ll ask you every-- oh, every fortnight or so, if you’d like to speak to your parents?” When Ignis nodded, Ventus went on, “So far, you’ve said no every time. Part of our deal is that communication is to be on your terms. Until you want to speak to them, they’re to leave you be. Seems to me as though they waived their rights to you when they signed you over to a distant relative, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Ignis didn't think most people would consider an immediate uncle “distant,” but most people didn't have families like his. It felt good to sit at the table and listen to Uncle Ventus explain things, the way mother absolutely never would. It was smoothing away the upset from just a half hour ago, and the jangling nerves were gone, and Ignis was warm from the inside out thanks to the tea and his cheerful bird cup and his uncle’s clever, calming company.  

He never felt more at home than he did on nights like this.

“What about the documents?” Ignis asked. “The ones her lawyer is going to send over?”

“Ah,” his uncle said. His deadpan humor fell away, and he suddenly looked a little nervous. “Well, that is certainly an important discussion. Are you-- I mean, would you like to talk about that now, or would you rather wait?”

He always considered Ignis’ opinion on things like this. One of his friends' mothers called Uncle Ventus soft for it, said children should just do as they were told, but Uncle Ventus always happily ignored her advice. Secretly, Ignis was glad. He liked being asked.

“If it’s important, I’d rather talk about it now?” he ventured. Ventus nodded again, and kept nodding, and tapped his fingertips on the table.

“Right. That’s perfectly sensible. Well. It’s like this, Ignis,” he said, and didn't say anything else.

“Like what?” Ignis asked after a moment. He’d never seen his uncle so out of sorts.

“You’ve been living here for nearly a year now,” Uncle Ventus said carefully, “and-- well, it _seems_ as though you like it. You have friends, and your gardening club, and plenty of boys following you around-- “

Ignis felt his face burn. Mortified, he wailed, _“Uncle!”_

“And you’re doing well in school,” Ventus went on, as though Ignis hadn’t interrupted. “Already an honors student. You’ve really-- you’ve done well.”

His uncle wasn't quite looking at him, but surely the window shades weren't _that_ interesting. Ignis could feel something hopeful come to life inside him, like big moon moths crowding for space to fly in his stomach, all before he could even be sure of where his uncle was headed with this.

“The plan was for you to stay here,” Uncle Ventus said. “For good. Until you’re of age, at least. You’re already under my guardianship, but this would make things permanent. You’d be my-- well.” Ventus coughed and rearranged his empty tea cup. “You’d be my legal heir, if nothing else.”

Ignis was staring at him. He wanted to ask _why on earth would you want to keep me?_ but he didn't think his uncle would be happy to be asked that. The moths in his stomach were doing cartwheels.

He thought of his bedroom upstairs, painted in his favorite shade of green. He thought of Mrs. Blake next door and her generous garden that always turned out tomatoes and squash for him, of the neighbors who clamored for his bakes, of his friends at school and the pretty boys who weren't afraid to catch his eye, of how much happier he’d been in the last year than he’d ever been before. He thought of his favorite cup, of his best papers hung up on the fridge, of the comfortable chair that made its way into the study so Ignis would have a place to sit while his uncle worked.

He thought of getting to _keep_ all of it, and then his eyes were burning and his breath was hitching and he was crying the way he hadn’t since he was very small.

Ventus shot up from his chair with a dismayed, “Oh, bug, don’t cry. I knew we should have had this talk later.”

He came around the table and crouched by Ignis’ chair. The moment he was there, Ignis moved without thinking, twisting in his seat and reaching out with both hands before familiar caution had a chance to convince him it was a bad idea.

Not a second later he was wrapped up in his uncle’s arms. His uncle, who had never so much as ruffled his hair without a glance to make sure it was okay, tucked Ignis’ head beneath his chin and hugged him tight, as though it was the most sensible thing in the world to be doing at three o’clock in the morning and he had nowhere else he needed to be.

“Come on, then,” Ventus said, rubbing Ignis' back. He sounded a little choked up himself. “It’s nothing to cry about, is it? Let’s put the kettle back on and have a fresh cuppa. You’ll feel like a new man.”

The ridiculousness of treating tea like medicine or a miracle, and the sheer _typicality_ of it from his uncle even at a time like this, made Ignis huff out a watery laugh.

“Okay,” he said, sitting back. “Thanks, Uncle Ven.”

He meant thanks for more than the thousand cups of tea, but he didn't know how to say that. His uncle smiled at him, and it was the gentle smile Ignis knew so well-- the one that put the crow’s feet by his eyes and slanted crookedly to one side-- and Ignis thought he must have understood.

They stayed up the rest of the night watching a cooking program and slept in late on Sunday, and the first thing Ventus did when he tumbled blearily downstairs was call his solicitor over on her day off to sign a bunch of paperwork that would settle Ignis’ life and future there in Knightsbridge for good.

“Congratulations,” the lawyer said begrudgingly, once the paperwork had been copied and faxed and emailed and filed. “He’s going to take your last name, then, is he?”

“He is,” Uncle Ventus said. “We discussed it. It’s as simple as going back to his mother’s maiden name, really.”

“Well, that’s easy enough. Let me know if you run into any issues and I’ll be happy to help,” the woman said, picking up her coat. “Preferably during my office hours, which are Monday through Friday, and Saturday by appointment only. You're lucky that boy of yours made us omelettes or I'd have told you to sod off."

“Ta,” Ventus said cheerfully, and saw her to the door.

Ignis ran a reverent finger over the copied paperwork, and thought  _Ignis Scientia._

It felt exactly right.


	3. tomorrow holds such better days

“Alright, bug?” Ventus asked him over breakfast one morning. His tone would have passed as casual if it weren’t for the worried way he was side-eyeing his nephew over Ignis’ third cup of coffee.

“Fine,” Ignis murmured, hardly paying the question any attention. He’d nearly burnt their food, which was a first for him, and he was still stewing over it. “Why?”

“Ah, well,” Ventus said slowly, “you had a bit of a nightmare last night. You don’t remember?”

Ignis winced. He’d thought he’d outgrown those by now. “Sorry, uncle. Did I wake you?”

His uncle looked displeased, lips firming into a thin line. He had never raised his voice at Ignis, but there were times it looked like he would like to. They were usually times Ignis did something really stupid-- like when he nursed a fever for days because he didn’t want to bother anyone else with it, ending up twice as sick as he would have been otherwise. Or when he sliced his hand open in the garden with the shears and doctored it himself, leaving his poor uncle to wander into the kitchen for a drink and nearly suffer a heart attack at all the blood in the sink.

He hasn't been the easiest child to raise, he thought, for all his attempts to be self-sufficient.

Ignis rubbed the back of his head, sheepish.

“You know _that_ isn’t the issue,” said Uncle Ventus, sounding miffed, and Ignis said, “No, I know,” and Ventus squinted at him for a moment before letting him off the hook.

“It almost sounded like you were speaking Latin in your sleep,” Ventus said, deftly moving the coffee pot out of Ignis’ reach when he went in for another refill and ignoring his nephew’s subsequent scowl with ease. “And you were tossing and turning like you were having a fit. You really don’t remember?”

Ignis dragged his fork across his plate, reluctant to have this conversation, but short of any good reason not to.

“Emma told me I used to have strange dreams a lot when I was younger,” Ignis recounted dutifully, embarrassed. “She said I’d call out for people whose names she didn’t recognize, and there weren’t a lot of people I knew at four years old that my nanny didn’t. Just an overactive imagination, is what the doctor said. Mother got me on that prescription as soon as I was old enough and the dreams stopped.”

Ignis went to therapy twice a month, something that Uncle Ventus and Mrs. Blake and a few of his friends among Ventus’ students all gently bullied him into, with promises that he could drop it at once if he hated it. To his surprise, he didn’t hate it. Maximia, his therapist, was a tall, imposing woman with a soft voice and very sharp eyes, and his prescription was something she wanted him off of immediately. Maximia was quietly angry about it, the way Ventus was quietly angry about things that involved Ignis’ childhood, and Ignis, who was never truly affected by the dreams he wasn’t aware of having in the first place, didn’t care one way or another.

But if they started immediately after his system was clean, maybe they made that decision too lightly.

As if reading his mind, Ventus said. “It’s only been a month or so. Give yourself time to adjust, bug. If I called Max right now, she’d tell you the same thing.”

“I know,” Ignis conceded. He sat there looking agreeable until Ventus rolled his eyes and passed the coffee back over, and then he smiled. “Thank you, uncle. I packed a bit of jam roly-poly with your lunch, by the way.”

Ventus brightened. “You’re a good kid. Just let me know when you need a start-up for your restaurant and I’ll make it happen.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Snuck this out of papa’s stash!” said Lisa, brandishing two bottles in victory. One was clear, and one was a red that made Ignis hop to his feet right away while his friends were still hooting their approval and lift the bottle out of her hand gingerly.

One glance at the label and he was scandalized. “This is a Chateau Montrose,” he said, holding it out of her reach. “This bottle costs over a hundred pounds. Your parents will _kill you._ ”

Lisa looked appropriately cowed and stood back to let Ignis return it to her father’s “stash” in the pantry. It was very clearly a respectable wine rack, nothing so illicit as she made it sound, but he kept it to himself. He wouldn't ruin _all_ of her fun.

“Well, I know for a fact that this is just bottom shelf liquor,” Milo said, wagging the second bottle. He caught Ignis’ eye with a rogueish grin and added, “You gonna make us something to eat with this, or are we gonna have to fend for ourselves?”

The rest of the group clamored at that, quick to jump on any excuse to bully Ignis back into the kitchen, and it would have been annoying if it didn’t warm him up a little. He still made sure to look annoyed, though, and pointed out that he’d need to go pick up groceries if he was going to cook them dinner.

Milo, surprisingly, handed off the bottle to Roman and got to his feet. With what he probably thought was a gentlemanly air, he bowed Ignis toward the foyer. Lisa asked them to bring back prawn crisps, and Margo and Danny both wanted wagon wheels, and Ignis said dryly, “I get the feeling this is a snack run more than anything.”

“They’ll be lucky if they get a Mars bar,” Milo agreed in a pleasant tone, following him out the door.

Ignis called his uncle as they ambled toward the corner grocery, and asked, “Is it alright if I use the card?”

 _“As long as you don’t break any laws,”_  was the cheerful reply. _“They suckered you into cooking for them, didn’t they?”_

There was always a strange sort of shy gratitude at being known so well. Ignis had had years to get used to it, but he wondered if he ever would. He smiled crookedly, aware of Milo staring at him sidelong, and replied, “They might have. Lisa broke into her father’s liquor stores, since her parents are gone for the weekend, but I’m not sure what pairs well with vodka.”

Milo tripped on the curb at Ignis’ easy confession of their shenanigans, and Ventus choked out a surprised-sounding laugh on the phone.

 _“Nothing,”_ he said, amused. _“Or everything, depending on how much vodka we’re talking about. They’ll be in for a world of hurt in the morning. I suggest bacon sandwiches for breakfast. And I hope I don’t have to ask-- “_

“Of course not,” Ignis said. “I’m not drinking any.”

His father was always somehow meaner after a few drinks and Ignis wanted to be nothing like him. There were a few wines in the kitchen at home for Ignis to cook with when a recipe called for it, but no hard liquors. Ignis was glad for it. If his uncle drank, he did it somewhere else, and never came home inebriated.

_“That’s my boy. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Make good choices.”_

“You’re not drinking?” Milo asked skeptically as Ignis pocketed his phone. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Ignis didn't make a habit of unpacking all his issues at the drop of a hat, so he just crossed the street when the light changed and left Milo scrambling to catch up.

“Aw, c’mon, not even a little?” His friend looked dispirited for some reason. “There goes _that_ brilliant idea.”

Ignis couldn't help being curious despite himself. “What idea was that?”

“The idea that you’d be like five percent less uptight than normal if you were a little sloshed,” Milo explained glumly, “and maybe I’d finally score a smooch after all.”

It was Ignis’ turn to feel wrongfooted, stopping short of the grocery doors like he'd been zapped by a bolt of lightning. He probably looked it, too, if Milo’s expression was anything to judge by. After a moment of mutual consideration, Milo broke the impasse with a grin.

“You should see what you look like.”

“Don’t joke,” Ignis muttered, adjusting his glasses. His eyes strayed just short of meeting Milo’s eyes, and his face felt warm, and there was a nervous squirming in his stomach, but it was all sort of-- nice.

Milo was freckled and charming in the late evening sun, in a wrinkled T-shirt and worn jeans and Roman’s flannel tied around his waist. The longer he stood there looking at Ignis, the more Ignis _liked_ that he was looking at him-- this boy that Ignis had gone to school with for years, and shared the sofa with when they slept over at Danny’s flat, and bought photography magazines for because he always lit up to see them plopped on his desk in homeroom.

When Milo braved a step forward, and then another, and one more after that, Ignis let him.

“No joke,” Milo said, more serious than he'd ever been. “Swear.”

“Go on then,” Ignis conceded. His voice was shaking a little bit, but Milo was kind enough not to comment on it.

He held Ignis’ hands with a gleeful sort of greed that he got to be the one holding them, his skin richly dark against Ignis' light tan, and kissed him with all the authority of a fourteen year old kissing-- and being kissed-- for the very first time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The summer of Ignis’ fifteenth birthday stretched like caramel taffy left in the sun, long and hot and sticking to its wrapper. He split his free afternoons between his garden and his kitchen, when Milo wasn't dragging him to the cinema or the park or the empty bedroom of whatever house party they were at.

Their friends always catcalled at them as they went. Milo always jeered back like there was something wicked going on between them behind closed doors. Ignis always rolled his eyes, consistently two seconds away from admitting it was nothing but harmless canoodling.

Milo was Milo, one of his best friends and attractive in the incendiary way of a cautionary tale, but Milo wasn't interested in any of the things they saw in the lewd films Margo snuck them into. He liked holding hands, and he was enthusiastic about snogging every chance they got, but he never wanted to go farther than that.

Ignis was fifteen, and wouldn’t know how to go farther than that even if it occurred to him. As it was, he was happy with the way things were. He didn't think he'd want to marry Milo, for all that he loved him, and Milo’s dreams for the future involved running off by himself to some remote corner of the world with nothing but a tent and a camera as soon as he came of age.

“I’ll call you all the time, no matter where I go,” he promised. “I’ll still love you best. And whatever posh guy you end up with is gonna have to make room for me.”

“We’ll see,” Ignis said mildly, but secretly he agreed. He didn't see why there wouldn’t be room for more than one great love in his life. He couldn't understand why most people were happy to settle for just one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At the end of August, a stranger’s face on the tube startled him. He only caught a glimpse of them through the window, waiting on the platform for the next train, but one glimpse was enough to cut him to the core.

“Alright, who was it?” Uncle Ventus teased, leaning over him to peer out the window obnoxiously. “To put _that_ look on your face, they _must_ have been something. Oh-- _that_ fellow? He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”

Were they handsome? Old? Ignis couldn’t say. He wouldn’t be able to describe this person if asked. The shape of their face, the curve of their mouth, the line of their nose-- he didn’t notice any of it.

What caught him so sharply was their wealth of dark hair, falling around striking blue eyes. He didn't think he’d ever seen that combination on a person before. He wanted the stranger to look up from their phone so he could see the color of their eyes properly. He wanted to stand there and stare, but the train was pulling away from the station, turning around the bend.

Even when Ignis pushed his cheek to the glass to keep looking, the stranger was gone.

“Aw, bug,” Ventus said, very clearly trying not to make fun. When Ignis squinted at him suspiciously, his uncle pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle what was  _definitely_ a snicker. “There’ll be a boy your age just as charming, I promise you. No need to get hung up."

“It’s not _like_ that,” Ignis protested, and then refused to speak to him for the rest of the train ride, but Uncle Ventus was laughing too hard to notice at first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _“How are your grades?”_ mother asked.

“Top of my class, same as last term,” Ignis replied. The call was on speaker, because he didn't like dealing with the woman alone even after all this time, and across the room Uncle Ventus rolled his eyes.

If it were Ven on the phone, Ignis thought, he’d come up with a more thoughtful question than _how are your grades._ He’d ask about Ignis’ friends, and whether he finally managed to produce carrots in his garden that didn’t turn green and bitter around the shoulders, and what books he was reading, and how Milo was.

The differences between his uncle and his mother meant something big, Ignis was certain. He just wasn't sure what.

He was tapping the counter with his fingers, eager to be off the phone. Mother’s voice woke up something small and scared inside him that slept the rest of the time, something very young and very unloved that he didn't like to think about. But she was his mother, and he felt bad for how often he told his uncle he didn't want to take her calls.

Maximia said he was allowed to feel that way, that he could hate her and miss her all in the same breath and it was perfectly normal.

“She hurt you,” Maximia told him firmly, the last time it came up in one of their sessions. “You don’t owe her your forgiveness, or your time, or your love. If you want to give her those things, it’s _your_ decision, and whatever choice you make is the right one as long as it feels right to you.”

“But I don’t _know,_ ” Ignis admitted in a small voice. “I don’t like talking to her, but I don’t think I _hate_ her. I don’t really think of her at all, most of the time.”

He felt terrible for admitting that, but Maximia smiled at him. “What do you think about?”

“Cooking, usually,” he said. It was the first thing that sprang to mind. “And my vegetable garden. And-- my friends are sort of insane, so they take up a lot of space in my head. Keeping them alive is a full-time job, really.” She laughed, and it made Ignis smile in turn, some of the tension in his chest coming loose. “And Milo.”

“Your boyfriend?” Maximia's tone was too innocent. Ignis shot her a narrow look.

“My best friend.”

“Of course,” she surrendered peacefully. “What else?”

“School, I guess. My neighbors, and Mrs. Blake.”

“And your uncle?”

Ignis was surprised by the question. “He’s my favorite person in the _world._ He always-- has time for me. And he never kicks out my friends, even when they’re being really annoying. And his classes are really interesting! He always forgets his lunch so I have to bring it to his office at the uni, and sometimes I get to sit in on his lectures. His students always try to steal my notes.”

Maximia’s expression was warm as she set her notebook aside, eyes crinkling with the width of her smile. “That’s a lot to have on your mind. You sound busy.”

“It’s not bad, though,” Ignis said quickly.

“No, I don’t think it is. In fact, I think it’s wonderful. If your mother doesn’t fit in there somehow, with how easily you’ve made room for all of these other people and hobbies in your life, then I think maybe that’s on her, and not on you.”

Ignis blinked, taken aback.

“Don’t make the effort _for_ her,” Maximia explained. “Don’t push yourself past what you’re comfortable with because you feel as though you owe it to a woman who abused you. You’re _allowed_ to tell her no. Your only duty is to yourself, Ignis."

 _That_ didn't sound right, but he couldn't think of how to say so. He focused on trying to internalize the ideas she planted in his head, instead. Tried to work around to believing them.

So now he took a deep breath, his grip on the phone white-knuckled, and reached for bravery. “I have to go now," he said, cutting his mother off. 

 _“What? Why?”_ Her voice sharpened to a point. _“I made time for this call.”_

“So did I. Bye, mom.”

He could barely hang up before Ventus’ hands were on his shoulders, the man crouching down to look up at him in clear concern. Ignis’ heart was beating quickly, and his hands were shaking-- he _hung up_ on her! And she was so _angry_!

But… he was nearly four thousand miles away from her now. She couldn't even call him without going through his uncle first. He was safe here, in the kitchen that had become his domain, with its lush herb garden and the standing mixer his friends chipped in to buy for his birthday last year and the small plasma TV Uncle Ven installed so Ignis could watch his cooking channels more easily while he followed a new recipe. He'd never been safer than he was right here.

“Alright?” his uncle asked carefully.

Ignis grinned at him, tugging him back to his feet. “Never better.”

“In that case, I have to say-- that was the best thing I’ve ever heard anyone say to Essie in my _life,_ ” Ventus informed him brightly. “‘So did I.’ _Brilliant_. We have to tell Max about that one.”

But he bustled about making tea anyway, which gave away that he was still worried, and being cared about like that was such a good feeling that within minutes Ignis had left that whole phone call far behind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aster was a few inches taller than Ignis, with thick, dark hair that hung past his shoulders and a nose that healed crooked after a break. His hands were large and warm and wandering, occasionally brushing the hair out of Ignis’ eyes, or skimming a piece of lint off his shoulder, or nudging their fingers together over a shared can of warm lemonade.

His lips, that first time they kissed, were softer than all the rest of him. He looked at Ignis with something bright in his eyes, as though Ignis was a treasure he was lucky to hold.

When Ignis slipped through the terrace door that evening, his mouth felt bruised from all the attention. He was ruffled and undone and a little bit dizzy, and Uncle Ventus must have been a magician or a mind reader because with one perfunctory glance, he _knew_ _._

“Well, well, well,” he said, grinning wide. “My little nephew, seventeen years old and quite the Casanova. I’ll want a name, of course.”

Ignis flushed and tugged his shirt straight. Once upon a time, there would have been a voice in the back of his mind like a warning bell, ringing out, _Don’t tell him. Don’t let him find out._

But this house was home to him, now. This man was his dearest family. And Ignis didn't feel a touch of true fear, just a flutter of nerves and the not-unpleasant burn of embarrassment, when he muttered, “Aster, from down the road.”

And his uncle only whistled low, eyes bright with mirth. “Aster Thomas! And his father asked me just the other day why he didn’t have a girl yet. Mind you, his mother knows better. She’ll be glad it’s a lad as sensible as you, and not some heartbreaker with a leather jacket and a motorbike.”

“I don’t know,” Ignis said, “I think I’d look fit in a leather jacket.”

His uncle laughed, head tipped back with the force of it, and Ignis went up to his room with a smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Milo would still kiss Ignis hello and goodbye shamelessly, but when Aster was around to scowl at him for it, he resigned himself with much ado to a peck on the cheek instead.

“Handsy fellow,” Ignis’ boyfriend muttered, and Milo shot him a finger gun instead of the bird. Ignis knew how much self-restraint that must have taken, and appreciated it.

“I was here first, muppet. Seeya, Igs.”

“I really don’t want to hear it,” Ignis said pleasantly the moment Milo was gone, knowing without looking that Aster had opened his mouth to complain. “He’s my best friend, and I told you in the very beginning how it would be. You didn’t have a problem with it then.”

“We were _kids,_ ” Aster said. “It’s time we grew up, don’t you think?”

A year older than Ignis, he was pushing twenty, and seemed ready to settle down. How he could want that with his _boyfriend,_ when he planned never to come out to his father, seemed a bit far-fetched to Ignis, but he knew it wasn't his place to say as much. He of all people understood how complicated and dangerous that situation could be.

Still, Ignis imagined choosing a life without Milo for the sake of Aster’s sensibilities, and almost laughed aloud.

“I think I’m quite grown up,” Ignis said, sidestepping the bigger issue so it wouldn't devolve into the customary fight. He didn't have the energy for it. “You certainly weren’t complaining last night.”

After a moment, Aster relented, wrapping an arm around Ignis' waist and grumbling, “I’d be an idiot to complain about _that._ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis was dreaming. He recognized this lightless place as soon as he saw it, not that he would remember when he was awake. He was surrounded by darkness, but it wasn't a frightening dark. It was as if his eyes were closed, while a familiar movie played on somewhere behind him, its cast of characters rich and beloved and close to his heart.

 _“Were you-- humming?”_ someone asked in clear surprise. Their voice was muffled, somewhat far away. He could only just barely make sense of the words.

 _“Hm, I suppose I was,”_ Ignis’ own voice replied, but not from his own throat. It was a far away voice, too.

 _“Who are you, and what did you do with Iggy?”_ demanded the first speaker. 

_“My lips are sealed.”_

Ignis felt warm to his very bones with affection and good humor, smiling at the intimate way these two voices teased each other and laughed together.

He woke up with a ghost of that smile on his face. Milo was propped upright on an elbow, gazing at him without judgement from his side of the bed.

“Weird dream alert,” he announced unnecessarily, voice scratchy with sleep, hair a curly halo. “I dunno why your nanny called them nightmares. Maybe they were different when you were a kid, but they look like good dreams to me.”

Ignis hummed, drifting off again. There was a tender presence inside him, something precious. He held fast to it for every second that he could before he fell back asleep, and it was gone by morning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis was surprised to find Maximia in the kitchen when he came home from class. Uncle Ven and his solicitor were there, too. They all looked up as the front door swung shut, and Lisa’s laughter died in her throat at the somber air.

Squeezing Ignis’ hand, she murmured to him, “Should I go?”

All of his friends were a rowdy sort, even after they'd finished A-Levels and moved onto jobs or uni. Lisa would clearly pick a fight to stay with him if he gave her any inclination he wanted her to, and Ignis was warmed just knowing that.

“Sorry, bug,” Uncle Ven said. He looked exhausted. “But it’s-- “

“It’s okay,” Ignis replied easily. He was alarmed by the atmosphere and the unusual guests, but he knew his uncle wouldn’t insist if it wasn’t important. “I’ll call you after, Lisa.”

“You better,” she retorted. With a wave for Ventus, and a suspicious look for the other two, she saw herself out.

Ignis left his shoes and bag at the door and took his seat at the table, smiling a little when his bird teacup got scooted his way. There was also a plate of the biscuits he made yesterday set out, untouched, which wasn't par for course.

Ventus sat beside him, running a hand through his hair. “I called Max here just in case I bugger up. I have-- to give you some bad news, Ignis. Okay?”

Ignis nodded, going cold. His fingers curled around his cup a little too hard. He wished Milo were here, instead of wherever the hell he was now. Naples, as of that morning, but it had been whole hours since _that_ phone call.

It didn't occur to him to wish for Aster, who worked all of fifteen minutes away.

“There was an accident,” Ventus said, strained. “A car accident. Your father-- “

It was all so tense and foreboding that Ignis knew what he was trying to say before he said it. Whatever his expression looked like, it was enough to make Maximia stand up and gesture for Ventus’ lawyer to get up, too. Ignis hardly noticed them going into the next room, he was blanketed by such calm detachment.

“He didn’t make it to the hospital,” Ventus settled on. “He was-- a monster, to put it nicely. A real piece of work, for what he did to you. For how he treated you. But he was still your father.”

“Hardly,” Ignis whispered. He was stunned, but he couldn't dig up any grief. There was no relief to be found, either. There was really not much of anything to be felt at all. “Sorry, I’m-- I don’t-- “

“Hey,” Ventus said immediately. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.”

Nodding slowly, Ignis asked, “How’s mom?”

From the look on his uncle’s face, _this_ was the root of the problem. He closed his eyes, looking like he had aged ten years in the past ten minutes, and folded his hand atop the table, and explained.

Ignis should have let Lisa bully her way into staying, after all.

 

 

* * *

 

  

 _“Are you being an idiot right now?”_ Milo demanded, his voice a comfort for all that it was accusatory at the moment.

Ignis clutched the phone like it was a lifeline, which meant he was reduced to packing with one hand. “I don’t think so,” he mutters. “Perhaps.”

_“Ven called me. Gave me the rundown. What are you doing, Igs?”_

“She’s my mom,” Ignis said. “Her husband just died. She doesn’t have any other family.”

_“Because she ran them all off by being a psycho! That’s on her!”_

“Milo-- “

 _“I’ve known you since we were like, eleven,”_ his friend barreled on. _“I remember how bloody_ _skittish you used to be. Took me three years to kiss you because I was afraid you’d-- wrinkle under my hands like crepe paper. You were that fucking fragile, mate. That’s what she did to you. You don’t owe her this.”_

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Ignis snapped, quick but not sharp. He paused with a Henley shirt balled up in his hand. He was pretty sure it was Milo's but he was going to pack it anyway, and served him right for leaving it in the first place. He was-- directionless with whatever he was feeling, coming apart with it.

 _“It’s true,”_ Milo muttered.

“Even if I don’t _owe_ it to her, I can _give_ it to her. Maybe it will be enough, and she’ll-- change.”

_“Yeah, and maybe I’ll win a Peabody.”_

“I need your support, Milo,” Ignis said quietly. “I need you to be on my side.”

That very young and very unloved part of him was awake again, and yearning, and even with how full and wonderful his life was, there was something missing. Something lacking. Maybe it was a hole his mom was meant to fill. Maybe it was something he had yet to find.

He couldn't explain why, but he thought he _needed_ to go. He thought something was waiting for him there.

Milo gusted out a sigh that was all static over the phone, and said, _"'Course I'm on your side, you knob. Where the hell else would I be?"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s only a few months,” Ignis said. Aster’s expression was hard to read, but he was definitely unhappy.

Ignis had to reach for patience. What was enough for everyone else-- _“I need to do this for myself”_ \-- should have been enough for his boyfriend, too, but he had guessed it wouldn’t be.

So he said, “My father just died, Aster, I need to go see my mother.”

It was manipulative, maybe. But it worked in clearing the dark look out of Aster’s eyes. He said, “Shit, Ignis. You’re right. Family’s important. We can make it work. It’s only a few months, yeah?”

Family _was_ important, but Aster must not have been paying attention if he thought _that’s_ what Ignis had waiting for him in the States. If anything, he was leaving his family here.

Still, he leaned into the kiss Aster gave him, spent the rest of the night with him, and let it serve as a goodbye. Aster would be at work when Ignis’ flight was scheduled to leave in two days.

Milo, on the other hand, was a force of nature. He dropped everything and flew in from Italy the same day of their phone call, because somehow he made friends with the owner of a ramshackle, barely-regulation jet, and risked life and limb and a fiery death to spend Ignis’ last day in Knightsbridge with him at all costs. Then he suffered through hours at the airport, and saw him all the way to the gate with a fierce hug that must have left an imprint on Ignis’ bones.

“I’m gonna skip across the pond to see you, just you wait. Never been to the Continent before, it’ll be fun.”

“I’ll hardly be gone long enough to warrant a visit,” Ignis muttered, but he clung to his friend and the promise tightly all the same.

Ventus wrapped his arms around the both of them, rather than wait his turn for an embrace, and said, “The second you want to come back, I’ll book you a flight. Doesn’t matter if it’s the same day you get there. You just tell me, and I’ll get you home.”

“Yeah,” Ignis said, face buried in Milo’s shoulder, hand clenched in his uncle’s sleeve. His gate was being called and he had to board, but it was hard to let go.

For someone who came to England with nothing but a bag to his name, he had a lot to leave behind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ignis spent every hour of the flight questioning himself, right up until he managed to fall asleep.

He dreamed of a laughing voice calling him _“Specs!”_ , and the warm, welcome pressure of hands holding his, and calloused fingers ghosting over his closed eyes while they traced a familiar, intimate path across his skin.

 _“Where are you, Iggy?”_  a dear voice asked him softly.

Ignis opened his eyes a few minutes before the plane would touch down in Chicago, looking out over the light grid of the city that was his home until he was ten years old, and didn't have a clue.


End file.
